


Softly

by youvebeenlivingfictional



Series: Softly [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fingering, Fluff, Oral Sex, Probably misuse of Mando'a, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youvebeenlivingfictional/pseuds/youvebeenlivingfictional
Summary: You've never known what it is to be soft, or to be treated softly.
Relationships: Boba Fett/Reader
Series: Softly [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174319
Comments: 13
Kudos: 181





	Softly

**Author's Note:**

> ....Anyway! I think we all knew I'd get here and if we didn't does it really surprise anyone? 
> 
> This is supposed to be a oneshot but we'll see happens, right?

You are not accustomed to niceties. Tattooine isn't _like_ Canto Bight. One doesn't go or stay there for pleasure, for fun. It's a planet of pressure points, tough choices, and hard work. Your life has been difficult; the choices that you've made, you've made for the sake of survival. Your entanglements have always been brief, and have never been serious. 

You've never known what it is to be soft, or to be treated softly. 

\--

Boba doesn't treat you softly at first, either.

* * *

\-- 

When you’re summoned to Jabba’s palace, you initially have a bad feeling about it. You’ve heard the whispers - that Fett is back. But you tend not to heed whispers; in your experience, the only rumors that prove to be true are those that are spoken with one’s chest. 

You do have your questions about the woman that’s summoned you, but you don’t ask them. Pleasantries are safer than inquiries, and until you know what this is about, you’d rather not give her a reason to unholster her blaster. 

\--

You’d only met the man once, long ago. The armor is the same, and for a moment, you’re willing to believe that maybe the sarlacc spit it out and someone else took it up, but when he speaks-- that voice is unmistakable:

“I need work done on my ship.” 

He doesn’t ask about your rates, how long it’ll take. He just lounges on the throne, lays out his needs, and waits for you to tell him how they will be attended to. 

You’re familiar with the Slave I - you worked on it before, when Fett was still in Jabba’s employ. It was his only reason for speaking to you then, too. You’d always wondered why he didn’t go to Pelli, but then you thought it might be that she asked too many questions. You kept your curiosities to yourself. 

“I’ve other jobs lined up. If you’re looking for something immediate--”

“I’ll pay double,” He cuts in over you, sounding bored with what he probably assumed was your attempt to bargain. You clench your jaw, fight the urge to snap at him. You’re alone with him and the woman that summoned you -- if you misstep and upset them, if they choose to dispose of you, who will know? Or _care_? 

“I have a rate of 1,500 credits for attack craft. That doesn’t include the cost of any parts that may need replacing,” You counter. 

“Then you best get right to work for what I’m paying.”

\--

Your hands are dry and aching and sore by the end of the first day. While the ship is in better condition than you expected, there are portions of it that are more or less held together with cargo netting and faith. You look up to find the suns sinking into the sky. 

You sigh and stand, cleaning your hands on a rag that you have tucked into the belt of your jumpsuit. You feel a presence behind you, and it takes everything in your power not to flinch, or to turn to face it.

“I sent back a list of the parts I need for approval.”

“I received it.” 

You nod, “As long as you agree, I’ll begin getting things together.” 

“Fine.” 

“...Then I’ll be back tomorrow.”

He leaves without another word. 

That night, you reach out to your other clients, informing them that you've work at Jabba’s palace. You refer them to Pelli, in case they’re unable to wait for their orders. Once that’s done, you’re so tired that you practically fall into your bed. You don’t apply salve to your hands like you mean to.

\--

Your second day working on the ship, you find cans of paint on board. Curious, and alone, you open one and peer inside. You recognize the same green that you’ve seen on Fett’s armor.

You’ve heard about greens like this; your mother used to tell you about plants and flowers, showing you illustrations on the packets of seeds that she brought from her home world. Your father could never afford to spare the water that it would’ve taken on Tattooine to make them blossom. Sometimes you still dream about those blooms, and greens, and planets that you realized long ago you’d never get to see. 

You carefully lever the lid back down and press it into place, ensuring it’s closed before you tuck it back where you found it. 

\--

You alert Boba’s accomplice - Fennec, she’s told you - that you’ll be leaving to go to Tosche station and pick up a few of the parts you’ve ordered. She gives you a wordless nod, and you give one in turn. You pass Fett on your way out, but you don’t tell him what you’re up to. If he has questions, he can ask you. 

\--

“It’s late.” 

You don’t look away from your work-- you know it’s late. You're working with a small flashlight in your mouth as you repair the jamming and masking sensor. You’ve been under the Slave I for the last two hours working on the damn thing, and the sliver of sky that you could see going dark hasn’t escaped your notice. 

“I’m nearly finished,” You answer, the words a little muffled and shaking your flashlight a little. A hand wraps around your ankle, and everything in you tenses.

“... Fett,” you warn, “If you just yank me out, this sensor is fried, and not only will it be expensive to replace the broken parts, but it’ll take at least another week to reconstruct-- besides the rest of the work that you still need done.” 

There’s a pause before the hand loosens, rests for a few seconds, then lets go completely. You hear a slight ‘thud’ against the side of the ship, and you roll your eyes, realizing he’s waiting for you. You shake your head a little, willing your focus to your work. 

When you finally push yourself out from under the ship, tools in hand and flashlight still in your mouth, you notice Fett’s calf is in your periphery. You stand, walking over to your kit and crouching beside it, wincing as your knees ache. You tuck your tools safely away before taking the flashlight out of your mouth. 

“You’re not paying me overtime,” You remind him, “You don’t have to worry about my being out here late.” 

You shut your kit and latch it before you stand, turning to face him. It’s dark, and he’s difficult to see for a moment-- and then he’s right in front of you. 

“Fennec will escort you home.”

The order is finite through his vocoder, but your brow furrows. 

“I’ll get myself home, as I did last night.” 

“It’s dangerous this late.”

“I can handle myself, Fett.” 

You turn from him, toolkit in hand, and leave. 

If you notice Shand trailing you at a distance on your way, you don’t mention it to her, or Fett. 

\--  
  
When you get up in the morning, the pressure feels low. Your head throbs, a thud at the base of your skull, and along your gums. When you walk to your speeder, the air sticks to the back of your throat, caking, thick.  
  
There’s a storm headed for Mos Eisley. 

Knowing this, you resolve to work on a few things that you know are quick-fixes, tell Fett that you’ll put in extra time tomorrow.  
  
But you get caught up in your work, and you realize it when the ramp to the Slave I is lowered. You glance over, away from the panel for the stabilizer fin, and do a double-take when you see Boba coming up the ramp. The sky is already darkening; wind is whipping sand up behind him, and you’ve hardly been able to complete what you’ve planned on doing that day. 

“The storm is rolling in.”  
  
“Fine,” You turn back to your work, “I’ll be out of here in twenty minutes.”  
  
“You don’t have twenty minutes.”  
  
“I’ll make twenty minutes.”

Fett heeds none of your stubborn retorts, just grips your upper arm. He begins to tug you toward the ramp, and you plant your feet. He’s stronger than you, though, and you’re dragged, the soles of your boots squeaking as you’re pulled along.  
  
“Hey!” You snap. You knock one fist on his pauldron, and when he turns to look down at you through his visor, you slam an open palm against his chest piece. You’re expecting irritation from Fett, but you hear a chuckle, and a mumble of, “ _Atin cuyan’ika_.”  
  
Your brow furrows, and you turn to ask what the hell that means, but Fett drags you off of the ship.  
  
“My tools!” You sputter, glancing back as he closes the ramp with a control on his gauntlet.  
  
“They’ll be there tomorrow.”  
  
“I’m not going home without them.” 

“You’re not going home.”  
  
Fear trickles through you, and you try to wrench your arm out of Boba’s grasp even as he drags you toward the palace. 

\-- 

Contrary to what you initially assume, you’re not thrown to a rancor once you’re inside. Boba lets go of you as soon as Fennec shuts the door, just as the wind shifts and begins to blow the sand, hot and harsh, across the threshold. 

You rub your hand lightly over where Boba had gripped you, glowering up at him. 

“I could’ve made it home fine,” You tell him, following him down the stairs to the throne room with Fennec in tow, “I’ve ridden through worse storms.” 

“Not on my time, you haven’t,” Fett counters, “Get comfortable. You’ll be here at least a few hours.”  
  
“You could’ve left me _on_ the ship. I could’ve kept working,” You fold your arms across your chest as you watch Fett settle onto his throne.  
  
“I’m sure there are a few things around here that could be tinkered with,” Fennec offers.  
  
“Well _his highness_ over there decided it was a great idea to leave my tools on the Slave I,” You retort. Fennec lips twitch into a smile.  
  
“Ya like spotchka?”

\-- 

Fennec is not a sharp-shooter of many words, but that’s fine with you. The two of you take up residence on the vacant bandstand across from Fett’s throne. You don’t bother with glasses, just pass the bottle of spotchka back and forth. You take small sips; if the storm lets up early, you don’t want the drink to cloud your senses. You’ll have to ride your speeder home besides.  
  
Fennec excuses herself, and you don’t question it. You are a little startled by the sound of hissing and clunking that comes from across the room. You eye the ungloved hand that’s held out to you. You glance between it and Boba before you hold out the bottle. Boba takes it with a grunt and takes a deep gulp. You take the moment, his distraction, to let your eyes sweep his face.  
  
When his head tips back down, as he lowers the bottle, you fight your urge to turn away. When he doesn’t automatically hold the bottle out to you, you raise a brow.  
  
“You’ve not very good at sharing, are you?” You ask. Fett chuckles the way he did on the ship, but now you’re treated to his lips twisting into a small smile, his eyes twinkling in the dim of the room. Still, rather than hold the bottle out to you, he sits down, taking Fennec’s place.  
  
“...I could’ve finished that job,” You add.  
  
“I’m sure you could’ve, _ad’ika_.”  
  
You’re not familiar with that term, either, and you could ask, but instead you press: “Then why didn’t you let me?”  
  
“I didn’t want you walking out into the middle of a mess.”  
  
Which is oddly considerate. You grunt and lean back against the wall.  
  
“I suppose I should thank you,” You reach out and take the bottle back from him. You glance up to find Fett watching you, brows raised.  
  
“Well?” He asks.  
  
“I’ll get around to it,” You shrug.  
  
Fett grunts, and you hide your smile behind a swig of spotchka. 

\--

By the time the storm lets up, the suns have long since set. You’ve got a bit of a buzz from the spotchka - you, Fett, and Fennec have managed to go through a bottle and a half together. You’re sluggish and feel weighed down by the bantha steak soup Fennec gave you to eat, and you’re less than argumentative as you’re herded up the stairs to a spare bedroom for the night. 

The bedroom is large, and a little dusty. There’s a mirror with a blanket thrown over it, and a dresser in the corner. You don’t poke through it, though you do look around the room a few times. You walk over to the window and peer outside, eyeing the Slave I. If you weren’t so tired, you’d go out and do a bit more work, but you’ve a feeling that Boba would come and drag you inside again.   
  
You strip your outer layers off and hang them over the back of the chair at the vanity before you walk over to the bed. You clamber on, settling back with a groan. You hold your hands up and peer at them, wincing a little bit. Your hands are dry and cracking a little bit. They need to be soaked, and covered in salve and gloves, but-- well. You can soak them tomorrow night, once you’re home. 

\-- 

You’re awake before the suns are in the sky.  
  
You push yourself up on the mattress, looking outside. You’re surprised at how well you slept, but then, spotchka and stew will do that on a desert planet. You stand and stretch, and ignore the faint throbbing in your head. Once you’re outside, once you take in a deep, cool breath, you know that it’s not another storm on the way.  
  
It’s _just_ a slight hangover. 

\--  
  
You glance up as the ramp to the Slave I lowers. You’re packing away your tools; the work on the stabilizer fin panel is finished, as is the work you needed to do on the shield generator. You straighten up in time to catch the thermajug that Fett tosses to you.  
  
“Caf,” He asks your unanswered question, and you nod, murmuring your thanks as you unscrew the cap. You take a sip and sigh softly at the taste.  
  
“How long have you been up?”  
  
“A while,” You answer, as you lower the jug, “I wanted to get a jump on what I couldn’t get to yesterday. I don’t want to fall behind.”  
  
“Because I’m not paying you overtime?”  
  
“Because I’ve got jobs after yours, Fett. Jobs that I put off to take care of your shit first,” You point out. He grunts, watches you as you brush past him to walk down the ramp. As heavy as the feeling of his gaze is, as it breaks chills out across your arms, you’ve got repulsor grilles to patch.  
  
\-- 

“The last few parts are coming into Tosche tomorrow.”  
  
A few days ago, you wouldn’t bother to mention it, but companionable swigs of spotchka and a night spent in the same lodgings makes for an affable acquaintanceship. 

You also might’ve found his hovering while you worked off-putting before, but now when Fett comes to watch you patch the radiator fins or inspect the ion drive or test the accuracy of the target scanner with womp rats, you don’t mind his presence. It’s...Oddly soothing. He doesn’t say much, doesn’t question what you’re doing, isn’t breathing down your neck or double checking your work; and it isn’t all of the time. The man _does_ still have business to run.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
The answer is flat and forward and all that you’ve come to expect from Fett. You’re doing your job, anyway, you’re on time. You’re sure the man’s got business off-world that needs attending to, but you haven’t asked. You don’t have insight into his day-to-day, but… Well, maybe it’s stupid, but you have the feeling that he’d tell you, if you asked. 

\--

Fett takes off in the Slave I almost as soon as the work is finished. You don’t see him go, but you hear it-- the distant droning of that engine is unmistakable.  
  
Something in you lifts with it, something that’s been sitting in your chest since Fett called you _ad’ika_ \-- and you still don’t know what that means, you never did ask (though you meant to), but the look on the man’s face had told you that it wasn’t anything harsh or mean. There was certainly some joke that you weren’t being let in on, but it wasn’t one at your expense.  
  
But rather than dwell on whatever that feeling is, you turn back to the X-34 landspeeder you’ve been working on for the last four hours.  
  
And if you strain to hear the sound of the Slave I dropping back into the atmosphere for the rest of the day… Well, it’s only to reassure yourself that your repairs have held up.

\-- 

Fennec comes by with your payment later that day. She stays for one drink before she returns to the palace. You don’t ask if Fett’s back and she doesn’t tell you. 

Fennec begins to visit you a few times a week, but she never stays for long. She seems someone that is content to be solitary. When the two of you don’t feel like talking, you’ll play a hand or two of sabacc before she disappears again.  
  
When you do ask about Fett, it’s only about how they came to know one another. The sight of her biomechanical implants surprise you; if Fett is so adept, why did he need you to repair his ship?  
  
“He had other business,” It doesn’t seem unusual to Fennec.  
  
“Not always.”  
  
“Often.”  
  
But your mind drifts to the morning of the sandstorm, the day and the night that followed - that uninterrupted time that you spent as a solitary trio.

“He values skill,” Fennec adds, and you dip your head at the compliment.  
  
And then she promptly beats your hand at sabacc and you spit a curse that makes her lips curl into a little smile. 

\--

After a few weeks, you stop listening for the sound of the Slave I, and the question of where Fett is doesn’t sit so readily on your tongue when Fenn is by. 

Late one evening, when you’ve closed up shop, you get a hammering knock on your door. You know from the cadence that it’s Fennec - but the fact that she doesn’t remove her helmet tells you that this isn’t a social call, it’s a summons. 

Your head is heavy and tired, and your hands are dry and sore and a little cracked, but your heart thuds against your ribcage as you scramble for your tool box. 

If she finds your eagerness amusing, Fennec mercifully doesn’t tell you. 

\-- 

When you arrive at the palace, Fennec nudges you toward the steps to the throne room. You frown, wondering what there is to repair down there, but you go. 

You’re not used to seeing Fett without _some_ facet of his armor on. It catches you off-guard when you reach the bottom of the stairs, expect to see a lounging king, and instead simply find… A man. 

He eyes the toolkit, tells you that you can start work tomorrow before he holds out a glass of spotchka. You set your kit down and walk to the dais, climbing the steps. He pats the arm of his throne, and you hesitantly settle on it. You tuck one leg up under yourself, allowing the other to swing back and forth as you take the spotchka. 

“Where did you go?” You look into the blue liquid as you ask. 

“Er’Kit.”

“What’s it like?”

Fett seems amused by your question, but he answers as he lowers himself onto his throne:

“It’s very like here. A lot of desert, a few mountains.”

You nod a little, raising your drink and taking a sip. When you lower your hand, though, Fett’s fingers clutch at your sleeve and lightly tug your hand toward him. You frown, watching him inspect your hand.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
Fett doesn’t answer, just skims a finger over a cracked patch of skin on the back of your hand. You tug your hand back and the spotchka sloshes over the sides of the glass a little, the drops slipping down your wrist, a few dripping onto the leg of your jumpsuit.  
  
“What’ve you done to your hands, _ad’ika_?” He murmurs.  
  
“I haven’t done anything, this just-- This happens sometimes when I work, is all,” You grumble. You would’ve had time to soak and salve your hands if Fennec had sent a message ahead -- or warned you at all. 

But Fett grunts and stands and waves you up with him. You get up and follow him upstairs, leaving the spotchka on the arm of the throne. 

\--

You can’t help your looking around, even as Boba steers you deeper into the bedroom. It’s not the same that you stayed in before - and when you glimpse the helmet and armor on a stand in the corner of the room, you realize why.  
  
Fett ducks into the fresher for a moment. When he returns, he has a bowl with steaming water and a cloth hung over the side. He nods you towards the bed, and you settle on it hesitantly. He sets the bowl on the bedside table and pulls up a chair in front of you.  
  
You’re careful and still, watching him dip the cloth into the bowl of water and wringing it out. He holds his hand out to you and waits expectantly. You roll your sleeves back before you lift your hand and hold one hand out to Fett. He looks down at the hand and wraps the warm cloth around your hand. You’re quiet as he smooths his hand over the cloth. You’re quiet as he rubs the warmth into your hand. He lifts the cloth away and dips it back into the bowl and wrings it out again. You hold out your other hand when Fett turns back. He gives it the same treatment as the other.  
  
When he sets the cloth aside, he stands and retrieves a jar of salve and a roll of coarseweave.  
  
“Your hands are your tools, _ad’ika,”_ He says quietly as he scoops from salve out of the jar, “You need to take care of your tools.”  
  
“I didn’t know I’d be coming here--”  
  
“This is not the first time I’ve seen your hands this way.”  
  
You expect a rougher grip, the way Fett dragged you off of the ship, but Fett wraps his hand carefully around your wrist, steadying your hand as he rubs salve into your aching hands.  
  
You watch Fett’s face as he works the salve into your skin. You’re unused to being so close to him; you haven’t seen him take focus or care this way with anything but a Spotchka bottle. You’re...Certainly not a Spotchka bottle.  
  
You never expected Fett’s hands to be soft as they are, but considering the gloves you’ve seen him wearing, it makes sense. They do have some roughness from years of work, but the way he touches you is careful.  
  
“...Managing your investment?” You ask.  
  
“I don’t need blood on the guard console,” Is Fett’s gruff answer, and you can’t help your chuckle despite your slight embarrassment.  
  
Fett’s thumbs smooth the salve into your skin. It smells like zwil and is thick as mud. He reaches for the roll of coarseweave next, and begins wrapping at the wrist.  
  
“...Fett?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“What does… What does _ad’ika_ mean?”  
  
“Little one,” He answers you without hesitance, without shame or embarrassment; his eyes are set steadfastly on his work, and he doesn’t look to you for your approval or upset. You're relieved, because the ease of his answer and the words themselves catch you by surprise. His voice is tipped with affection, with the same care he treats your hands.  
  
“And on the ship, when-- Before the storm,” Your brow furrows as you try to remember, watching him wrap your other hand, “ _A--Aten?_ ”  
  
“ _Atin,”_ He corrects, setting the roll aside and meeting your gaze again, “Stubborn.” 

You can’t help the irritation that twists your features, but it only makes Fett laugh.  
  
“Just so,” He nods to your face, “Now, to bed, _ad’ika_. It’s late.”  
  
There was more to what he’d called you on the ship, more that you want to ask him, but instead you stand, and thank him, and find your way back to the bedroom that you slept in before.  
  
In the morning when you unwrap your hands, you find them soft and sweet-smelling, and not completely healed, but well on their way. 

\-- 

When you complete the day’s work on the Slave I, you find yourself dreading the prospect of returning home alone. But before you can make for your speeder, Fennec offers a drink and a round of Sabbac, and you take her up on it. Fett’s business is concluded for the day, and he lounges like a big, silent loth-cat as you and Shand play a few hands. He has his armor on, but you’re certain that you can feel his focus set on you through his visor.  
  
When you get home, as you unpack your toolkit, you find a jar of the salve Fett used on your hands. You’re not sure when it was placed there, but you smile a little bit. You soak your hands, and work the mixture into them the way he did before wrapping them for the night. 

\--

You’re under no illusions that your new friends and employer are saints of any kind. This is _still_ Tattooine. 

And while you shouldn’t let their favor get to you, it’s made you a little cocky. 

Before, if someone were to toss you the keys to their ship and tell you to keep a lookout, you’d do just that. 

Now, when someone lands, tosses you the keys, tells you to keep a lookout, you toss the keys back and ask them if you look like a fucking valet droid. 

That winds up with a blaster turned on you. 

But Fennec has a blaster turned on them in a moment, and tells them that you have work to do, that their ship doesn’t need minding. You see Fett not far behind, lingering in the doorway. The disgruntled party picks up their keys and leaves you to your tending of Boba’s ship. It’s hours before you see them again, and they pay you no mind when they leave - in fact, when you accidentally make eye contact, they seem to scurry away. 

When you go to tell Fett that you’ll return tomorrow, he waves you up to the dais. You’re patient as you wait for him to speak. He reaches you, grasps your wrists, inspects your hands. You’ve been using the salve faithfully, and it shows. 

Once he’s satisfied, he lets go of your wrists and peers up at you.

“ _Ad’ika_ ,” he says, voice low and firm, “If you've a problem with anyone, you come to me or Shand.” 

And for all of the warmth that had coursed through you, for all of the approval you sought as he inspected your hands and called you _little one_ , you recoil in irritation. 

“I can handle myself, Fett.”

It’s hardly the first time that you’ve told him so, and you take a step back to leave.

“I’m well aware of that,” And his saying so stills you, “But I do not want you dealing with the types that pass through here.” 

“And why not?” 

He sighs and reaches up, removing his helmet and setting it aside. He looks up at you, eyes dark, and honest, and a little wary. 

“Because the people that come here are not going to be as chatty and pleasant as we are.” 

You fend off a smile if only for the sake of your pride. 

“I can--”

“He had a blaster pointed on you, _cyar'ika,_ ” Fett argues, “And quickly. You talk to me, or you talk to Shand.”

You consider the way that when they left the palace, the visitor hardly looked you in the eye-- and scrambled besides when you took notice of them. 

“...What did you say to them?” You ask. 

“What needed to be said.”

“Which was?”

“The truth.”

“ _Fett--_ ”

“If they touched you or spoke to you or looked at you again, they would not make it off of the planet.” 

Your stomach flips unsteadily, your skin warming under his unwavering gaze. You take a few steps closer to stand between his legs. 

“What does _cyar'ika_ mean?” You ask. 

“...Sweetheart,” his voice is softer as he tells you this than it was when he told you about _ad’ika_ , and maybe it’s because he doesn’t have your hands to focus on. But he carries on watching you, even as you steady your hands on his shoulders and straddle his lap. 

“What are you doing?” He seems surprised, not wary, and you take that as a good sign.

“I like _cyar'ika_ better than _atin,_ ” You tell him, and he chuckles, resting his hands on your hips.

“You're still stubborn,” He points out. 

“Well, if that isn’t the Quacta calling the Stifling slimy.”

Boba pinches your hip, and in turn, you slap his pauldron. He hauls you closer to his chest and you suck in a breath, bracing your hand against the back of the throne to keep from falling completely against him. 

Boba isn’t soft with you. 

Not at first. 

The two of you kiss like you’re still bickering: all push and pull, nips and bites. His hand curls in the fabric of your clothing, oil and grime of the day be damned. You cup his face with both hands, allowing yourself to rest fully against him as your fingers smooth over the scars on his cheeks and the strong line of his jaw.  
  
Boba slips the zipper of your jumpsuit down, and you let go of him long enough to tug your arms out of your sleeves. In pulling your arms out of the sleeves, you shift in his lap, feeling his hardening length against your thigh. He groans against your lips and slips his hand along the hem of your shirt. You press yourself back into his hand before rolling your hips down into his lap.  
  
“Settle, _cyar'ika_ ,” He grumbles, fingers dipping under the hem of your pants.  
  
“No,” You murmur against his jaw. He nudges his nose against your ear, repeats, “Settle.” 

You shift again, and Boba’s hand shifts up to grasp the back of your neck. You still, breath hitching in your throat.  
  
“ _Atin ad’ika_ ,” He hisses, turning your head to meet his eyes. Your stomach flutters at his gaze - his eyes are piercing and dark. When you lick your lips, he tracks the movement of your tongue.  
  
“Are you going to do something about it?” You challenge. Boba’s eyes narrow minutely, and he murmurs, “Up.”  
  
You stand like he says.  
  
“ _Kneel.”_  
  
You’re stunned by your own willingness to do as he says, the shiver that trips down your spine as you go down to your knees. You drop your eyes to the bulge in Boba’s pants and slide your hands up over his thighs. You look up at Boba again, squirm and squeeze your thighs together as you watch Boba undo the fastenings on his pants. He reaches in, and strokes himself a few times, and you whimper when he doesn’t bare himself to you.  
  
“ _Impatient_ ,” he grunts, but he’s smiling a little. He pulls himself out of his trousers then, and you lean up.  
  
“Open,” He murmurs. You do as he says, and he grasps himself with one hand and cups your jaw, drawing you in with the other. You flick your tongue out across the head of his cock before you take him into your mouth. You let your eyes fall shut, giving a soft hum as you swirl your tongue around the head of Boba’s cock. He’s thick, and a little longer than you expected. You take as much of him as you can.  
  
“You can be good when you want to be, mm?” Boba murmurs, sliding his fingers from your neck to trace the bulge of himself along your cheek. You hum around him in agreement, wriggling and lowering one of your hands from his thighs to slip between your own. You press fingers against your clothed clit, trying to quell to ache.  
  
Boba’s fingers skim down to your chin and tip your head up to meet his eyes. You blink up at him with dazed, desirous eyes and Boba’s lips spread into a wider smile. He rubs his thumb over your lower lip, and you allow your lips to part a bit, your tongue teasing along his slit as you lean away from him. He leans forward, resting his forehead against yours as he reaches down, sliding his fingers over yours and increasing the pressure against your clit. You gasp softly, slipping your hand out from under his and curling your fingers around his wrist.  
  
“ _Boba_ ,” You sigh.  
  
He hums, nudging his nose against yours.  
  
“Stand up,” He murmurs, “Take this off,” He slaps his fingers against your clothed clit and you whine, your hips jolting before you can scramble to do as he says. He leans back as you stand, watching you kick off your boots and push down your jumpsuit. Your underlayers quickly follow, and you cast them aside, uncaring of where they wind up -- _Shand_ could come in now and you wouldn’t care.  
  
Boba’s hands wrap around your thighs and draw you closer. Before you can settle back into his lap, he nudges your ankle with his foot, widening your stance. He reaches up, tapping his glove against your lip. You lick against the pad of the glove before you lightly bite down on the glove. Boba pulls his hand away, sliding his fingers between your legs. You shiver at the feeling of Boba’s fingers against your skin, skimming along your slit and over the wetness that’s gathered there.  
  
You take the glove from your mouth, setting it on the arm of the throne and pressing your hips down against Boba’s touch. He leans up, mouthing down your neck and between the valley of your breasts before he turns his head, sucking a kiss into the side. He trails kisses to your nipple before he sucks it between his lips, tongue flicking softly against the bud as his fingers swirl against your clit. You brace yourself against Boba’s shoulder’s fingers tightening around the pauldrons, toes curling. He turns his head, scrapes his teeth against your sternum before he mouths along the underside of your other breast. 

You lift a hand to rest on the back of his head as he slips a finger into you. You whimper, unable to help clenching around him. He groans against your skin, lifts your head and flicks his tongue against your nipple before blowing air over it.  
  
“ _Boba_ ,” You whine, shifting your hips forward as he slips a second finger into you. He curls them, twists them, grins when you groan and turns his face up to you as your head falls back.  
  
“Sssh,” He murmurs, “You’ll take another.”  
  
“I need you--”  
  
“I know, but you cannot take me yet, _cyar'ika_.”  
  
“I can handle it,” You whine, and Boba chuckles. He guides you into his lap carefully, shushing you as he slips another finger into you. You can’t help the whine that leaves you, and you don’t care about the way it echoes around the throne room. You lean in, begging for a kiss, and Boba gives you one, slipping his tongue along your lips before he allows you to take what you want. You whine against his lips, shivering as his fingers speed up.  
  
“Please-- Boba, _please!”_  
  
He soothes you softly, leaning in and mouthing along your neck as he leans back against his throne, peering up at you. He grips himself, slides the head of his cock along your slit, and you gasp as the head of his cock catches against your opening.  
  
“Next time,” He murmurs, gripping your hip, “I am going to get my mouth on you--”  
  
“Boba--”  
  
“Take what you want, _cyar'ika,”_ He murmurs, and you rest your hands on either side of his neck. Your eyes fall closed and your mouth falls open as you sink onto Boba’s cock. While he took his time preparing you, he still stretches you as you take him in.  
  
“ _Mesh’la_ ,” He murmurs under his breath, and you’ll ask him what that means later-- just now you can’t focus on anything that isn’t the feeling of Boba filling you, and curling you into his chest again, a hand sliding up your back and keeping you steady. You roll your hips slowly at first, and lean down and rest your forehead against his. His grip tightens on you-- and you don’t know why, you don’t know what for, but he’s gripping you tight and driving up into you.  
  
Gasps and whines and reverent murmurs of his name are spilling from your lips. He isn’t as vocal as you are, but he murmurs encouragements, your name, “ _Mine_ ,” and “ _cyar'ika”_ ; the sound of skin against skin and your gasps and sighs cut between his. His fingers slip between the two of you and work over your clit. You tremble as you feel your orgasm coiling in your stomach.  
  
“ _Boba_ ,” You warn, gliding your lips against his.  
  
“Are you safe?” He murmurs.  
  
“Implant,” You gasp.  
  
“Can I--”  
  
“ _Yes!_ ”  
  
“ _Cyar'ika--”  
  
“_Fill me, Boba, please, _please_ ,” You whimper. Boba growls, and you cum as he fucks harshly up into you. You feel him spill into you and you bury your face into his neck. Your hips move for a few moments longer, and Boba’s fingers splay across your back. You mouth along his jaw sleepily, fingers curling in the fabric of his clothing.  
  
\--  
  
When you finally stand, you’re a little sore, and your knees ache from kneeling for Boba, and straddling him on his throne. He leads you upstairs, leaving your clothing in a pile on the floor. He steers you back to his bedroom, and you clamber onto his bed, unbidden.  
  
You watch Boba remove his armor and undress through drowsy eyes. He disappears into the ‘fresher, and returns with a damp cloth, sitting beside you and tapping the inside of your thigh. You spread your legs for him and he cleans you carefully. If he’s thrown by your watching him, he doesn’t let it show. Once he’s set the cloth aside, he returns to bed and lays down beside you. You curl up into his side, resting your head on his chest.  
  
You trace your fingers along his scars, as Boba’s fingers drift over your shoulders.  
  
“...Boba?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“What’s _mesh’la_?”  
  
“Beautiful.”  
  
You lift your head to look at him, flustered and flattered and sleepy from being fucked. Boba’s knuckles graze your cheek, and you lower your head, brushing your lips against his chest as you slide a leg over his.  
  
“...What’s _cuyan_?”  
  
“Survivor.” 

You smile against his skin, and his fingers curl around your shoulder.  
  
“ _Nuhoy_ ,” He murmurs. 

You hesitate before you venture, “Sleep?” glancing up at Boba for confirmation.  
  
He nods, and you turn your head, resting your head against his chest and closing your eyes.  
  
“Will you teach me more tomorrow?” You mumble. Boba’s chest rumbles with a chuckle, but he murmurs, “ _Elek,_ _mesh’la.”_  
  
“...Did that mean yes?”  
  
“It does. Now sleep, stubborn girl.” 


End file.
